The Prophet
The Survivalist #7
by Jerry Ahern
Copyright © 1984
by Jerry Ahern
All rights reserved.
The Prophet
A Peanut Press Book
Any resemblance to persons, governments, businesses, or governmental entities living, dead, or operating or having operated is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
The climb down from the rocks to their base had been hard— hard for Natalia whose skin color was still too pale, arduous for the wounded as well. Rourke again carried Natalia' s M-16, Rubenstein her pack. Cole and his two men had hung back, a rear guard against a further attack by the wildmen, but judging from the primitive quality of their actions, Rourke doubted the wildmen would come nearer the valley— at least not until it was realized that he and the others could travel the valley safely and not die from radiation— Rourke hoped.
Well ahead of them, Paul walked, the wand of the Geiger counter extended ahead of him, his voice occasionally singing back an all clear. The only danger would be a freak combining of isotopes during the small conventional blasts needed to trigger the neutron release— and if Paul Rubenstein did find a hot spot, by the time he had the reading on his Geiger counter it would be too late to save himself, given the lack of availability of any decontamination equipment.
Rourke walked on, Natalia beside him. 'Go with Paul,' she whispered, interrupting his thoughts.
'You want to be with Paul— in case. I know that. I would, too— go ahead.'
He glanced at her, reaching out his right arm, his CAR-15 between their bodies— and he folded his arm about her waist to support her.
'I am all right,' she nodded.
'Bullshit,' he whispered quietly.
He craned his neck to look over his right shoulder, shouting to Lieutenant O'Neal and the others behind them, 'Veer off toward that small canyon over on the left— we can rest there.'
'I don't need to rest,' she whispered.
'Yes, you do,' he told her, then ignored her, calling out to Rubenstein ahead of them, the younger man turning around, 'Paul— pull back— head toward that small canyon— get some rest!'
'Gotchya,' the younger man called back, starting toward the canyon to intercept them, going at a jog-trot run.
'You want to reach Filmore Air Force Base—'
'I will,' he told the Russian woman beside him. 'We will— but we'll rest. A few hours off your feet and we should be able to move on. O'Neal can set up a defensive perimeter and stay here with the wounded.'
'And Cole? He will come with us?'
'May as well,' Rourke said through his teeth, his voice low, the canyon mouth looming closer now.
'I so much enjoy that man's company,' she laughed, Rourke looking at her, feeling a smile cross his lips. 'Why did you insist on defending me back there before the wildmen attacked— I could have taken care of Cole.'
'I know that,' Rourke nodded.
'You are the ultimate male chauvinist, John—', He looked at her, squinting against the sun through his dark- lensed glasses, but saying nothing.
He glanced back, to his right, their bodies making long shadows across the purple-tinged ground, the sun a massive red ball on the horizon. He squinted at it, wondering. A few hours' rest had turned into an exhausted night for all, Rourke anxious to reach the base, find the six eightymegaton warheads housed on the experimental missiles, anxious to return to the submarine that had transported them to the new west coast, then get the nuclear submarine's captain, Commander Gundersen, to take them back. He had lost now two weeks in the search for Sarah and the children. Rourke squinted at the rising sun again— how long would it continue to rise?
Natalia and Paul were silent as they walked, Paul only slightly ahead, using the Geiger counter just as a precaution. Captain Cole and his two surviving U.S. II troopers seemed to be talking to Rourke's left— but he couldn't hear the words. They wore navy issue arctic parkas, as did Natalia, only Rourke and Rubenstein wearing their own coats, the weather warmer now than it had been, all trace of snow gone. He judged the sunrise temperature at just below fifty.
They walked on.
Ahead of him, along the perfect road, no cracks in the pavement, no grass growing there yet, Rourke could see the entrance— the main entrance— to Filmore Air Force Base. The fences were wholly intact within the limits of his peripheral vision, and the base itself seemed untouched. There were bomb craters in the far distance beyond the base, craters he could not see now, but that he had seen the previous day with the Bushnell binoculars. As he walked, he theorized the bombing technique. An Air Force Base, it would likely have been hit early— they were not bombs, of course, but ICBMs with neutron warheads. No plane would have gotten this far in the early hours of the Night of The War. That the field itself was untouched was mere chance, no missile guidance system was that precise to drop just outside the base's perimeter and thus leave the base untouched— ready to use again.
'John—' It was Natalia.
'Yeah— I see it,' and Rourke looked at her for an instant, then back toward the growing definition of the base itself— a reflection from a water tower not far inside the base fence line. Glass perhaps— glass from a scope. 'When I give the word— fan out— fast,' he said, loud enough that Cole and his troopers would hear, loud enough that Paul would hear as well. The younger man looked back over his shoulder then, nodded, and glanced toward the field. He had seen the reflection as well, Rourke thought. 'Likely a sniper up in the water tower— that's a good sign. If it isn't the wildmen, then it's likely one of Armand Teal's people—'
'Bullets are bullets,' Cole snapped without looking back.
Rourke answered nothing. He kept walking, his eyes squinted against the glare from the water tower. He was waiting for it to shift— just slightly— because the nearer they could get to the fence the better their chances would be. The sniper— if it were a sniper and he estimated that it was— would have predetermined fields of fire and ranges. There would be range markers.
As if she read his mind— he wondered if perhaps she could— Natalia rasped, 'There is a small pile of rocks by the side of the road twenty yards ahead— the rocks are darker than most of the others here.'
He only nodded. The sniper would attempt to hold his fire until they were near the marker. He would have used the Pythagorean Theory to calculate the range, the height of the water tower a known side of the triangle, then paced out distance to the marker, the second known leg. The third side of the triangle would simply be a basic computation then, the scope zeroed for that distance. A good man, under such fixed conditions, using a good rifle— like his own SteyrMannlicher SSG. he thought absently— could use an eyeball as a target and hit it. The bullet drop figures would be memorized, or more efficiently printed out and taped to the stock for instant consultation.
He wished he had the Steyr now— given its near unbelievable accuracy in a production rifle designed specifically for counter-sniper utility, and given his familiarity with the weapon, he could use the glare of the scope in the tower as his target— 'I saw it move,' Natalia murmured.
'Yeah,' he nodded. 'So did I.' He was counting to himself, trying to pace the man. If he could disperse the potential targets at the precise instant before the man would shoot, that would give them more time to run and seek cover before another aimed round could be fired. Snipers, by their very nature, had to be precise.
His palms sweated.
'Take cover!' He shouted the words, pushing Natalia with his right hand, running left. There was a loud crack— a nonmilitary rifle, he decided. The glare from the scope shifted as Rourke shouted, 'Throw some fire up there!'
